


The Lady Alexandra

by GretchenSinister



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blacksand - Freeform, F/F, Genderswap, Mesmerism, QUICKSAND
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretchenSinister/pseuds/GretchenSinister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For your perusal: A monologue from the perspective of one Miss Black, regarding her experiences in the care of the renowned female mesmerist, Lady Alexandra.</p>
<p>This may make little sense to those who are not Victorianists, but who can say no to Blacksand femslash?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lady Alexandra

**Author's Note:**

> This is a dramatic monologue-yes, I decided to go with a Victorian form as well as subject matter. Because why not? Please feel free to read between the lines.

No, no! I am not your mesmeretrix

Though perhaps I look the part. Lie back, miss.

Your cheek has scarce more color than the sheets.

Do you fear? Do you doubt? I shall tell you,

Then, of the magnetic powers wielded

By the Lady Alexandra. I too,

Miss, before taking her assistant’s role,

Standing tall, severe, plain in black, was her

Patient. You smile! Can you not imagine

Me, looking as you do now, and even

Frailer? You are pale as snow, I was grey

As ash that had long forgotten fire, my

Limbs wasted as if starved for fairy

Fruit, my hands on the covers like spiders

Spinning me into a cloying trap, all

White silk and sticky slime. A sorry sight

Indeed! No wonder then, my fiancé

Was banished from my sickroom by my own

Command, one of few I gathered strength to

Give. You’ll pardon, miss, a young woman’s pride.

            There I lay, confined to bed. They did not

Know what ailed me—and yet! I _must_ get well!

(This was John’s express command—never since

He have I seen one quite so devoted.)

Everything was tried. I oped my mouth for

Pills, tinctures, solutions and suspensions,

Bared my arms to let flow my wat’ry blood,

Was purged and plastered—and still my body

Would not tilt back to true! How strange it was,

That after so much caring trouble my

Flesh refused to swell into a blooming,

Pink, and rosy shape—but then, even in

Health, as now, you see I have not that form.

            What, miss? Oh, that is of no import. You,

I am sure, will be perfectly restored.

The Lady Alexandra’s skill is great.

            As I said, all was tried, yet I languished

Still, like one who pines and dies at the cave

Mouth that leads to Elfland, not knowing what

It looks like, or if it is even there,

Knowing nothing but a strange sad tugging

In one’s center—in the breast that holds the

Certainty that such fairy vales exist

And the dread that one should never see them.

There, you see, miss? The turns my fancy takes

Are not yet quite so well as John would wish,

Despite all the skill of Lady Sandra—

Alexandra, I should say, though she has—

Alas! I digress again, and all is

Out of order! Let me begin again.

I lingered, and there was nothing to be

Done. John kept lists, you know, of all the cures

That failed me. In neat rows, in neater books.

To the last line they were filled. Poor hopeless John!

            At length, I grew convinced that these days were

To be my last, and I begged to visit

A childhood friend—I was too weak, John said.

And thus she came to me instead. _She_ said

Cases like mine were often solved full quick

With the influence magnetic. No joy

It was for John to hear such things, his mind

Conjuring a stranger, dark and beetle-

Browed, to be near me while he could not. Yet,

He loved me, so, would resolve to look

And find, a suitable alternative.

            It was early morning when she came, though

Dim within my chamber: I hid from light

To court more sleep, such as it was—for I

Was plagued by nightmares. When my eyelids fell,

Shadows, thick and oily, would seep onto,

And underneath, and finally, replace

My own poor fragile skin, or so it seemed,

Till I woke whimpering in the gloom. I

Told her this, and how, sometimes, before I

Woke, the shadows would begin to bite, with

Teeth sharp as new needles, at my belly

And my brain, but worse was when they mocked me.

She said nothing in reply, but oped wide

The dark curtains: Thus was revealed to me

The face and figure of my savior, set

Off in glory by the gilding sunlight.

Short was she, short she still is: you will see

Miss, when she enters, her golden curls do

Never pass my shoulder. So short she was,

So plump, so fair, I doubted then her pow’r.

Could this creature with such sweet rounded limbs,

A swelling bosom, lips like fresh cherries,

And cheeks like sun-kissed peaches, truly hold

The potency that would renew my mind?

But then, ah, then! By degrees I grew less

Dazzled, and dared to lift my eyes to hers.

No doubts _then_ could remain! Like nothing else

But honey trapping lightning, those light brown

Orbs held fixéd mine, but not, like John’s, with

Leaden sorrow. Instead she smiled, and, I

Swear it now, the sun shone with doubled strength.

So calm she was! So glad, so free of fear!

At once I knew I must rely on her

If I was e’er to be restored to ease.

_She_ would dare to ride astride a nightmare

Breaking it not with saddle, whip, or rein,

But only gripping thighs and small soft hands

Buried in the flow of its long black mane.

With voice melodious, soft, and clear as

Golden bells, she broke in upon my feverish

Reverie, speaking thus: “I am the Lady

Alexandra, come to heal you from your

Afflictions, by the pow’r of the magnet

And my eye—to do as your dearest John

Has asked me: by virtue of my harmless

Sex, a genial visitor to your

Holy sickroom. For, what iniquity

Could rise from such small, soft, white hands as these?”

What indeed! I nodded as I could, my

Feeble movements scarcely enough to shift

The heavy mass of my long black hair, grown

Brittle through many weary months. She smiled,

And spoke again, just as I said to you before:

“Lie back, miss.” Yet she went on: “As you will,

At your command, I shall begin, the close

Mesmeric passes.”

                              “Yes!” I sighed, “Oh, as

You will, anything to save me from my

Early death.”

                      “Do not fear,” spoke the gentle

Maid, though fierce still yet in eye, “Today we

Meet that aweful specter and shrink him down

To size. We shall make of death a little

Pet, to purr and curl beneath our fingers

As we pass him hand to hand.” Saying so,

She drew close upon my bedside, dreaming

Fire in those eyes that fixed me, that could hold

A butterfly in place without a pin.

I wonder what she saw in mine, once as

Fine a grey as ever the chivalrous

Knight picked from out his lady’s face, but now

Dulled as is the morning star, cold at dawn—

You say they have recovered? You are kind.

Once more to that room! Her eyes never left

Mine, even as she began to make her

Passes, slow and long, gentle arms moving

As if she were a fairy of the sun-

Lit Southern seas, more used to drifting through

Brilliant palaces of coral, her hair

Flowing soft, shining in the currents warm

Of waters yet untouched by works of man:

She fairly floated in the sickroom’s stale

Thin air, that freshened with her careful touch.

Always starting at my forehead, cage of

My troubled dreams, her little healer’s hands

Seemed to draw the darkness out from ‘neath my

Skin, by virtue of the sunny warmth that flowed

Like spring-time from her palms. Of course she did

Not touch, but her inner fire called to mine,

Began to rekindle my poor flesh as

Sandra’s hands barely hovered over my

Wasted cheeks. In moments my mind grew dim

Yet calm—I was no longer lost in fog

But rather enfolded in golden mists,

In a world yet uninvaded by the

Nightmares, and in seeming like an endless

Sea, I reclining on the glitt’ring shore,

Restored nerves feeling the soft honeyed breeze,

Like the breath of a peaceful giantess,

With no disordered sting. How halcyon

That realm! Methought I felt brown-sugar sand

Beneath my strength’ning hands, while playful waves

Lapped at toes now free from heavy bedclothes.

How long I sojourned there, my only thoughts

To breathe and to enjoy the freedom and

The light, I do not know. For an instant

And an age, the strain that held my thoughts

Mingled not with ugly notes of sorrow

Nor of woe. And as I looked round myself

I saw, amid that desart shore (and strange!

So much lovelier I recall it still, for

Appearing as though naught but time and wind

And water had made it as it was) I

Saw, I say, nothing that was not my soul.

            Too soon I woke, returning spirit loath

To recommune with clay, and yet the peace

Was not so wholly fled. Throughout my limbs

It lingered, as Sandra’s hands still hovered.

            “Am I now well?” I could not be—my voice

It shook as if I had journeyed to that

So-sweet realm on foot, nay, ran there. “I feel

The likes of which I never felt before:

In body light, in mind more confounded

Than ever.” Slow as sunset, the Lady

Sandra closed her eyes and bowed her bright head.

            “If you care not for my methods, Miss Black,

I shall not come again. Pronounce the word

And I will go.”

                       “Oh no!” I cried. “Stay, stay!

Oh please! I beg of you, my lady dear—

I do believe you only now can ease

My troubled mind.” Then—a sign of my health,

Or of my sickness, I still do not know—

I grasped her soft hands, pressed them between mine,

And dared to meet her gaze again. Her smile

In reply shone serene from out her eyes

Yet stole from her no power, and I knew

She would be my fort and my oasis—

On the way back to John, you understand.

            The next day she returned, and many days

Thereafter, with eyes and hands that dragged me

From stygian shores of nightmare to gold-

Touched strands of dreams: She showed me all their forms,

From gentle waves as I had seen before

That flooded my once-dry heart, brought to veins

Once withered, fresh blood; to waves far more grand:

At first I feared they should have destroyed me,

Save that the Lady Sandra held my hand;

To smaller dreams, not delicate, but fine

Like globes of fallow gold resting heavy

In my hands, satin-smooth and quick to warm

To fingers growing ever braver; dreams

There were too like thin threads light, soft as glad

Thoughts, that would frame my face like the willow

Does some secret space: these sweet airy dreams

Would weave about my hands like countless rings

Of price infinitely great. Such dreams she showed

That soon my nightmares could find no room in me:

The Lady Sandra’s gaze had filled me up

With light, and I grew better day by day.

            Then soon enough, of a gray afternoon,

Upon withdrawing from the trance, she said,

“Your John has asked for you and you look well—

Or you did a moment hence. Will you see

Him, dear Miss Black?” Trembling, I said, “I fear

I must. Oh Lady Sandra, please me near

Me, walk with me, press against my side

And hold my hand. Relapse is upon me.

How can I face the one I love like this?”

            Obliging, she placed her hand, small but strong

In mine—still slender but now less fragile.

Then, like some strange bloom that supports its stem

She led me from the sickroom, to the world

Of crowds and stares. The nightmares strained against

Their bits, and only Sandra held them off

Then, dream-power in her hands. I suppose,

Too, John’s loving gaze served me as a prop—

But he had never Sandra’s power. “Love!”

He cried, “You now are well. Oh happy day!

Let us be wed by special license soon:

I cannot bear another day when you

Are not mine.” Ah! Such words of love could not

But be restoring, and yet I feared he saw me false:

I felt my cheek pale (inexplicable!)

As he spoke. Lady Sandra saw this change,

And fixed him with stern eye. “Do you not see,

Sir,” said she, in familiar lulling tones,

“The fine Miss Black’s good health is not a plain

Or meadow, as you wish. She stands upon

A cliff’s-edge, even now, and may topple

With slightest breeze, though gentle, from compass

Point inauspicious. See you now how pale

And drawn she looks? The illness has not run

Its course, though she is much improved.” Her words

Were true as spoken, and I clasped her hand

In thanks.

            “But what,” said John, “is to be done?

She should not remain your only patient—

Yet fear I what may happen if you are

Wanted, and not present.”

                                    “Fear not, friend John

On your Miss Black’s account. I have a plan

To keep her by my side where she shall lack

For nothing that she needs. So shall she too

Take up a part; help me as I help her:

My close assistant she will be—she is,

By now, well versed in most of my techniques.

And does it not seem right, friend John, to have

A boon companion near me as I walk

Through chambers full of strangers? We will keep

In this way gossip from our practice. So

More dear ones gain the chance to be restored

Through my magnetic power. Never will

Miss Black be far from aid, though she will heal

Now, mostly on her own.”

                                           “I must think,” said

John, who looked away as Sandra turned her

Honeyed eyes to me.

                                   “Do you agree?” asked

She, low and sweet as far-off lullaby.

“Yes” murmured I, and “Yes” again, with all

The warmth that I could summon from my once-

More rushing blood.

                                   John nodded now as he

Turned back: “It is a choice most rational.

For Miss Black’s health, she’ll work with you. My dear,

Do you agree? I hate to cause you pain

Yet our wedding must be postponed, our long

Engagement made still longer. Do not weep.

I leave you to the lady. She will know

When we may be safely joined, in one long

And joyous life. Trust to her judgment wise

In knowing when you, my fragile flower,

May be grafted to my firm trunk. Farewell,

Then. I am so glad everything has been

Arranged, to all our satisfactions.” He

Left then, to that world far beyond the rooms

Which Sandra and I have walked ever since.

            Yet strange it is to tell, and sad, my cure

Has never quite succeeded. I have not

At any time been well enough to wed

My John, these past five years. Yet do not fear.

I am very ill you see, though you may

Think me tall and strong. Only Sandra keeps

Me standing, so great and wondrous is her

Skill. From her hands I doubt not any girl

Could be restored, to say naught of the pow’r

Of her eye. Ah! I hear her now. Soon she

Will bring her light into these chambers dim,

Illuminate your mind, and cure you. She

Will know what to do, yes, just what to do

And I shall help, as she now lets me. Lie

Back once more Miss: be still, quiet, calm…

And let us bring some color to your cheeks.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously anything weird in this poem comes from your own sordid imagination. I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> (And for more normal Blacksand I invite you to check out my other works.)


End file.
